


Does The Walker Choose The Path

by elluvias



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: And dwarves like extra sassy hobbit, Bilbo is also particularly sassy, Dwarves are Wallmakers sometimes, Fever born madness that was encouraged by the bad idea bears who live on tumblr, Gandalf is Mogget, Illicit Hobbit Abhorsen AU Lovechild, M/M, Smaug is not the worst thing inside that Mountain right now, The Baggins are Necromancers/Abhorsens, The Tooks are Clayr, and a way to get away from nanowrimo, dunno who will win him in the end but there's going to be stuff, in with all that adventuring, pure madness, so basically everyone thinks Bilbo's a burglar when he's really the Abhorsen, this is madness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:55:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elluvias/pseuds/elluvias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was insanity. Madness. He was the Abhorsen! Granted he had only just gotten the title bare weeks before, and he had nothing save his bells, some hastily packed gear, and The Book of the Dead. Not even a handkerchief, which he wished he had brought with him, or a sword. Which really he should have, didn't the Baggins have a family one? But no, if he had brought an ancestral blade he'd give away the ridiculous ruse that he was some sort of master burglar. Which Bilbo would have liked to point out to Gandalf that nobody believed it to begin with but apparently 'secrecy was of the utmost importance'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The Shire was a peaceful queer little place. The rolling green hills, the fertile farmlands, the kindly trees all stood in stark contrast to the lands around it. There was unmistakable life that flowed through the lands of the Shire, life unmarred and untainted by the growing shadows of the world around it. It was a land of warmth, where strolling through the winding pathways always felt like coming home no matter where you came from originally.

And if one noticed that standing at the edge of Shire land that the world seemed particularly different on the other side of the ancient wall, well it was just one of the many things that made the Shire different. The wall was made of stone and earth, and really it was about as practical in defense as a three foot high stone wall could be. Orcs had crossed it before, wolves had crossed it, and mischievous fauntlings who knew better had crossed it. Still there was something to it. The sun was always brighter on the Shire side of the wall, the weather almost always milder, and somehow most famines and crop blights seemed to pass the land of the Shire altogether.

Though the greatest thing the wall kept out, the one thing that was most important for the wall to keep out, was the dead. Oh not to say that death didn’t happen in the Shire. It did, from plants to hobbits, everything perished at some point. But unlike most other kingdoms of Middle Earth, the dead rarely came back in the confines of the Shire, and never did they manage to cross the wall to get into the land so full of life.

It wasn’t to say that the wall itself was the only thing standing between the hobbits and the general unpleasantness of dealing with the dead trying to come back into Life. No there was something, someone else, who kept the Shire a comfortable refuge.

No one could exactly pinpoint when the Bagginses became necromancers. Not the usual sort of necromancers, for dabbling about in death for the sake of spitting in the face of Mandos and Eru was the height of impropriety and stupidity. They were necromancers of a different sort, carefully and usually attempting to politely but firmly send the dead back into death (for it was highly rude for someone to show up unannounced and uninvited, and certainly their parents taught them better than that). They helped performed the last rites of Mandos, breaking ties of the dead with their bodies, they helped to counsel and comfort the grieving (usually the first to turn to the idiocy of necromancy), and often explained what death was. For if you took the mystery out of anything then fear of the unknown was soon to go away.

Death to a Baggins was not a mystery. Some days even though they would never ever admit it aloud, they would wish it was.

Death stripped away innocence and nativity. It wasn’t always cruel when it did so, but it was inevitable. The silent waters washed it away just as it seemingly washed away all the colors of a Baggins. Twasn’t hard to spot them, with their dark curly hair and pale porcelain skin. Though what always told another hobbit that whom they were speaking to was a Baggins was simply the look in their darkly colored eyes. There was knowledge there, ancient bone deep knowledge, that seemed to see through all masks and illusions. Their dark eyes were almost always calm though, like the placid surface of a lake in the early morn right before the sun rose. Things seemed to flicker there, secrets, but rarely did they seem to break the surface for it would be the height of impropriety to let everything out in the open. And let it be said that Bagginses were always proper.

For it was their natural sense of propriety that had drawn Mandos’ eye to them. It had been their stalwart unflinching sense of duty, even more stubborn than that of a dwarf in some cases, and the brightness of their souls that had had the Lord of The Dead pausing as he studied them. There had been a problem, a greater problem now that the Valar had retreated from the lands of Arda. Well at least physically speaking. Still the problem was with the dead and keeping them in death. 

Souls did not simply appear in his grand halls, as everyone liked to believe. Death was a journey through nine different precincts, and nine different gates before they got to him. Not all who went into death went willingly, some fought to return, others were summoned and bound by necromancers. Before the talk of sending maiar to combat Sauron began, Mandos was puzzling and thinking of the problem before him.

He could give the task to the elves, but death was not a known or expected thing and they feared it greatly. Men and dwarves had both the potential for greatness, but greatness was not always good for all for deeds that were ill could be just as great as deeds that were good. Their failures were well known to Mandos. Nothing had seemed to suit, no one had seemed to be adequate until he spied the hobbits.

The lore was lost then about how Mandos approached the first Baggins to give them their task. Something was done to their blood, their very being to change them so. To give them something extra to combat the dead, to set things right in the world, and to maintain borders between Life and Death when they could.

Abhorsen Baggins was the first hobbit necromancer. His name became a title, for while there could and would be many Bagginses to live at the same time, there would only be one who would be called Abhorsen. The Abhorsen was the only Baggins allowed to leave the Shire, whose title was known to all the races of Middle Earth. It was the Abhorsen who would be sent for when trouble arose with the dead, to set things right, and shore up all the things broken in the process.

It was a title given to the most Bagginsish of Baggins, not of course chosen by the Baggins or hobbits of the Shire. It was forgotten as to how the first few Abhorsenes were chosen, but now it was often Radagast who came to name the newest Abhorsen when the last one died. Radagast who was beloved and well liked amongst the Baggins, no matter how queer his guests to tea were. He was polite, courteous, and didn’t like disturbing the peace (especially if it meant more cake).

Not like Gandalf. Who most Baggins would cluck at in dismay when his pointed grey hat would appear on the horizon. For if Gandalf was around then an adventure was to be had, usually given to the Tooks for they seemed to love and thrive in chaos as much as Gandalf. Gandalf was a disturber of the general tranquility of the Shire who took great pleasure in ruffling Baggins feathers as much as he did throwing Tooks into the world. When Gandalf came chaos and impropriety reigned supreme.

They were the only Istari to ever visit the Shire since its founding, at least to the Bagginses’ knowledge. Not that they could blame the others for not wanting to come, nor did they particularly want to invite more wizards to come to visit. Still there was an implicit trust in Radgast and a tenuous somewhat lukewarm courteous mildly amiable arrangement with Gandalf that they would alert the Abhorsen of any trouble that would need their attention.

So it was entirely within Bilbo’s right to take one look at Gandalf’s smiling face, remove the pipe from his mouth give the wizard a terse smile and say: “Good morning, but _no_. I am not going on any adventures, escapades, or quick little errands for you. If you’re looking for a hobbit drag into such a thing and make them late for dinner, I suggest you go to Tuckborough. Now good _morning_.”


	2. A Most Unusual Abhorsen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo as a child always wanted to go on a life changing adventure with Gandalf now as the Abhorsen he simply wants to throw something at the meddlesome wizard.

Bilbo had always wondered if Gandalf would come for him. Some days, some days he yearned for it with a passion that would have shocked and dismayed most of his Baggins relatives. Gandalf didn’t like Bagginses, he wasn’t hostile towards them. He was courteous, but mischievous, and did love putting them in pickles. Especially the Abhorsen, always the Abhorsen. Gandalf’s presence for an Abhorsen meant trouble, and a great deal of it. Gandalf never actually went out of his way to cause grevious harm, either mental or physical, but he had a habit, a desire for mischief.

But Bilbo had always felt comfortable with the wizard, when no other Baggins had. It was because of his mother, he knew now. Belladonna Baggins nee Took had been one of the greatest of the Clayr, and Gandalf did like Clayr. The seers who saw pieces, snippets, snatches of the future. Things that could be, would be, should be, and should never be. The Clayr Saw the world as no one else could. Few had the Sight that Lord Lorien gave, save for the Tooks, some elves, some men, a few dwarves. The Clayr helped shape the world, the Seers who would steer the course of the future. They were often not content to sit and See with their mind’s eye in dreams or reflections. No they would See it with their own eyes, shape it with their own hands.

Gandalf had treated Bilbo like he had treated all the Tooks, with a gentle indulgent fondness. The wizard’s fondness for Belladonna had transferred to her son almost automatically. It had probably helped that as a child Bilbo had been the most UnBagginsish Baggins to ever hold the Baggins name. Bagginses were dark haired, dark eyed, pale and vaguely intimidating in the way that all highly proper and respectable people could be. Bilbo had been golden haired and fey eyed, with an open smile and adventure in his heart. He wasn’t supposed to look that way, he was supposed to look like a Baggins. That was how the way things went, if your last name was Baggins you were a Baggins in every last inch of your body and soul. If your name was Took then you were a Took in every last inch of your body and Soul. It wasn’t like the bloodlines hadn’t crossed before on multiple occasions. It wasn’t like Bilbo had had multiple members of his family who sported the same sort of mixed blood and had turned out like every other hobbit before them in the same situation.

It had made Bilbo hope in the secret places of his heart that he would have the Sight. That he could leave the Shire, see elves, see the world, shape it into something better and brighter. That he could and would one day leave the Shire with Gandalf by his side, share an adventure that ended with eternal friendship with the wizard.

The hope had withered and died the day of his thirteenth birthday and had been presented to The Book of The Dead. It was the Abhorsen’s grimoire, the book that every Baggins was presented to on their thirteenth birthday if the book and the Abhorsen were both in the Shire. Only those who had the innate talent for necromancy, the talent all Baggins were supposed to be born with, could open it. Any other who tried would find that the book was impossible to open. With baited breath his family had watched his small fingers trace the dark green edge of the book, then followed the silver clasps covered in marks, and finally unbound the book. He had opened the book and read the first chapter, and after that nothing had been the same.

Some doors once opened could not be closed again.

Bilbo Baggins was to be a Baggins afterall.

Gandalf did not come again to the Shire for nineteen years. Nineteen years where Bilbo slowly put away his dreams and hopes of adventures and elves, of changing the world for the better. Nineteen years where the secrets of Death were revealed to him, where the cold waters washed away the color in his skin, tarnished and muted the bright golden hue of his hair into something else, and took away the innocence he was never meant to have.

At thirty two years of age, orphaned and painfully alone in a too big smial, Bilbo had met Radagast for the first time in his life. The Brown Wizard had smiled at him, pointed, and declared to all his Baggins relatives three days after the death of his Great Aunt Pansy, the former Abhorsen, that Bilbo was to be the new Abhorsen. A proclamation that had sent perhaps a handful of Baggins to have a fit of the vapors, since it had been everyone’s belief that someone far more suitable, more Baggins-ish, like Otho. Otho who had been the Aborsen-in-training for years, who had been groomed for the position for as long as Bilbo could remember.

Now three weeks later, sitting on the bench outside his family’s smial smoking a pipe to calm his nerves Bilbo saw a sight he never believed he’d see. The figure he had dreamed and hoped would come. The figure who had been central to so many of his mother’s stories, to her life, and somehow absent at her death was hobbling up the walkway. Excitement flooded him for a moment, before anger flared up instead. Anger that Gandalf had gone for so long, anger that Gandalf hadn’t had the decency to show up at his mother’s funeral, anger that it had been Radagast who had told him that he was to be the Abhorsen. Any of the wizards could have done it, they were all tied and bound to the Abhorsens, why, why, why had Gandalf not come?

Perhaps he didn’t know? He probably didn’t. He probably was coming around for a spot of tea and to perhaps indulge his dear friend’s son on an adventure, the poor Bilbo Baggins who looked like a Took but had the indecency to be a Baggins in power.

The already emotional hobbit, for who wouldn’t have been emotional on their next to final day of residing in the home they had grown up in and presumed that they would live in all their life only to find out that no, he couldn’t, he had to go live in the Abhorsen’s smial in the middle of the bloody Brandywine River. At least no one was making him give up Bag End legally, at least not yet. He still had most of his things lying about, a silent protest that while he would have to move that where he was going to would not be his home. This was his home, thank you very much. Still the emotional hobbit had managed to work himself up into a decent temper by the time Gandalf stood before him, blocking his sun and clearly meaning to talk with him.

Still despite wishing to throw something at the wizard Bilbo summoned the politest smile he could muster and took his pipe from his mouth. He couldn’t help pointing accusingly at Gandalf, gesticulating with his pipe as he spoke. When he finished he was being looked at by the wizard with a mixture of disappointment and displeasure, as if he had failed the wizard somehow. Well he had hadn’t he? He was a Baggins and that was failure enough, Abhorsen too, though Gandalf likely wouldn’t know of that.

“To believe that I would be Good Morning’d in such a manner by Belladonna Took’s son. You have changed Bilbo Baggins and not entirely for the better. I am here because I have need of someone to go on an adventure, and you are the one I’ve chosen.”

Bilbo looked up at Gandalf with his Tookish colored eyes. No one had eyes like a Took. They were always a mix of grey, green, blue, and gold, mutable in their shade depending on their moods and general circumstances. They were Fey eyes, Took eyes, the eyes that were given so that the bearer could See. Supposedly given to the Tooks by Lord Lorien as a gift, his mark on the bloodline he chose specifically to bear his power. The colors shifted, changing subtly and growing bright.

“You cannot expect me to drop everything after nineteen years and simply agree to go on an adventure with you! I have responsibilities now, important responsibilities. Things far more important than a ramble down the East Road to Rivendell and back.”

“Hmph if you want an explanation for my absence then I will explain. But not right now, I do have some other matters to attend to. But I shall be back to talk, perhaps by dinnertime. Set a place for me.”

With that the wizard had the gall, the utter gall to smirk at Bilbo, quite at ease with inviting himself over for supper. A noise escaped the hobbit, the Abhorsen, it was something akin to a growl but more muted and slightly strangled. As if half of him wanted to let it all out of himself while the other half was trying to smother it in his throat before it could escape. Bilbo gestured fruitlessly at the wizard before turning on his heel and stomping into his smial and shutting the door resolutely behind him. He would not, was not going to, prepare dinner for the wizard.

And if he found himself only a handful of hours later in a kitchen with the makings of a grand feast being prepared, then it was only because he felt like cooking a bountiful feast. Nothing anyone else could have or would have said would have been able to convince him otherwise. If the wizard did show up then he would have a meal to remember, for if food couldn’t be seasoned with love, his mother always used to say, then discontent would suffice for bitterness could make things sweeter... especially if they choked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Bilbo's fairly young in this, and under the age of 'adulthood' in the eyes of the Shire. It's going to play in the plot of the story, I promise.


	3. Uninvited Guests To An Expected Party

When Bilbo opened the door for Gandalf after the wizard knocked he had a startling realization as to who was on his front stoop.

It was not the wizard.

That was a bear.

A. Bear.

No, wait, not a bear because bears weren’t bald with tattoos. It was a dwarf trying to pass as a bear. Which really wasn’t reassuring at all, come to think on it because bears and dwarves showing up unexpectedly in a place where they ought not to be was never tidings of good news. Bilbo wasn’t exactly sure why the dwarf bear was standing on his doorstep, but there had to be a reason. A good reason. A reason that likely started with ‘bloody’ ended in ‘wizard’ with ‘inconsiderate’ in the middle and more than a few choice expletives that if his mother had even known Bilbo was thinking them she’d rise from Death itself to box his ears and wash his mouth out with the most disgustingly floral soap in the smial. Didn’t matter if he had learned most of them from her anyway. He was a Baggins and supposedly respectable.

“Dwalin, at your service.”

The dwarf bear rumbled as he bowed ever so slightly and Bilbo mentally flailed for a second. Grasping at the etiquette lessons his father had instilled in him, Bilbo rallied himself and returned the bow at the exact same angle as it had been given. To bow more would to be subservient, which Bilbo would never be considering that the bear dwarf named Dwalin likely didn’t outrank the Abhorsen, to not bow at all would be rude. Bilbo had acknowledged them as equals.

“Bilbo Baggins at yours.”

Then, like his father had warned him, the dwarf came inside without asking. If Bilbo Baggins hadn’t been well acquainted with stories of Gandalf and with the various customs of the major races of Arda he would have had a fit. Well he was still having a fit, but the fit of temper was being pushed down and swallowed like a bitter medicine. It burned his throat and roiled in his gut but he plastered on the most polite face he could muster at the invasion.

“Which way laddie?” Dwalin the bear dwarf finally asked as he unceremoniously tossed his coat into Bilbo’s arms. “Is it down here?”

Twitching Bilbo stared at the ceiling of Bag End for several heartbeats. He tried not to recall the various unpleasantly despicable extremely forbidden arts of necromancy that he could perform on this invader. He was not a Took, he was not a Clayr, fits of fury and magic were frowned upon severely. No, he could not do anything to his guest, even an uninvited one.

“Dinner is down the hall, to your left, past the kitchen.” Because that would likely be the only thing of interest to the dwarf, seeing as how Gandalf had specifically mentioned dinnertime.

Carefully the young hobbit found the best place to put Dwalin the dwarf bear’s coat. He arranged it neatly, refusing to fall prey to the petty part of himself that wanted to simply dump it on the floor. Dwalin was here for a reason, likely a ridiculous one, but still he could not on good conscience turn him away. If he was perhaps a bit more Took he would have, but Bilbo was not.

Mustering up his courage Bilbo finally followed Dwalin to the dining room. There was a feast placed out, a veritable cornucopia of food and drink. His previous plan had been to impress Gandalf with his cooking skills, to make a meal so undeniably perfect that the only thing that the crotchety wizard would be able to find fault with would be the overabundance of food.

“Master Dwalin?” Bilbo caught the larger male’s attention from where it had been focused on the food. There was a wry expression on the hobbit’s face, one that even the carefully maintained mask of polite neutrality couldn’t cover up. “As you are the first to arrive and not a wizard, could you please tell me how many guests I should be expecting?”

“You don’t know?” Dwalin asked after a bark of laughter had been startled from him by the hobbit.

“Master Dwalin, I got my information from Gandalf. Unless he is entirely far more forthright with your people than he is with mine, then I consider myself lucky that I was made aware for the correct time of the meal. The amount of people was never discussed.”

“I cannot say with certainty, but last I knew the number was fourteen with the expectation of more to come.”

Bilbo closed his eyes, visibly fighting for control over his temper as his head fell back with an audible ‘thunk’ against the wooden archway. A deep breath was taken in and slowly exhaled before the hobbit trusted himself to open his eyes and look at the dwarf again. 

“Right then. More chairs and plates. You may help yourself to the food, Master Dwalin.” Then Bilbo turned on his heel and marched into the kitchen to begin gathering more seating.

This was a horrible prank to play on a hobbit and Gandalf should have known better. No, wait, he did know better which made it all the more terrible. Gandalf was most certainly not viewing Bilbo as a Took, no matter what vain hope he had had in him tried to say otherwise. The wizard saw Bilbo as a Baggins, as the Abhorsen most likely. Tales of his mischief played on the many others before him were still whispered about in the Shire today. This would just be one more prank, one more petty slight the wizard could get away with. Gandalf wouldn’t endanger Bilbo physically, but it didn’t mean that the wizard wasn’t above such things.

Bilbo was not going to cry.

He wanted to, but he wouldn’t. Something bigger was likely afoot, why else would Gandalf truly lower himself to dealing with the Abhorsen? Gandalf never went out of his way to interact with the Baggins unless it was absolutely necessary and to interact with the Abhorsen, well one of the Greater Dead had to be involved some way. Lovely.

Soon enough more dwarves came. There was chaos and life filling Bag End like it had never been filled before. It was almost as stifling as it was strangely comforting, though so far none of the dwarves spoke of why they were here. Trying to get information out of Gandalf would prove useless, Bilbo knew, and frankly the hobbit was avoiding the wizard.

Bilbo’s patience was fraying by the end of the impromptu song of his apparently lackluster hospitality. It was no surprise to him when it finally snapped with an almost audible sound when the final dwarf appeared. It wasn’t his presence that had pushed Bilbo over the edge of Baggins respectability headlong into Tookish indignation. No Bilbo would have been able to hold his tongue and serve his final uninvited guest with all the courtesy Bilbo could muster if he had at least kept himself on par with the other dwarves in behavior.

Thorin Oakenshield obviously couldn’t content himself to being average in his rudeness. He was a King so of course he had to be better than everyone else (save Gandalf) at hobbit insulting. The only thing that saved the king from an impromptu trip into Death was the fact that Bilbo’s bells and panpipes were in his room and the only other thing that kept him from being immolated was the fact that Bag End was wooden and really Bilbo wasn’t going to do anything that would harm his home. So the hobbit fell back on the only thing he had left.

“Axe or sword?”

The hobbit’s lips curled back into a lavacious smirk, the same smirk that he had inherited from his mother. His head tilted to the side, he heated his eyes and _leered_ at Thorin Oakenshield in the same manner that he had seen his mother do a hundred times before when confronted with overly opinionated extremely entitled mannerless men.

“Well if you _truly_ want to know, Master Oakenshield, I am a deft hand at conkers. Though I do fail to see why that is relevant.”

There was a moment where all the dwarves save Thorin Oakenshield seemed to grasp the hobbit’s innuendo. The looks on their faces were priceless, ones which if Bilbo had any skill at drawing he would have tried to recreate on paper to forever to cherish this moment for the rest of his life. Thorin Oakenshield though seemed to maintain his haughty demeanor, the double meaning of his words were completely lost on the dwarf.

“Thought as much. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”

The dwarves laughed at Thorin’s joke and Bilbo briefly debated on how attached was he to the vase by the door, and would its loss being smashed over the head of Thorin Oakenshield be outweighed by the simple vicious pleasure of braining the dwarven king with something breakable.

Not that anyone had mentioned yet to Bilbo that Thorin Oakenshield was the King of Durin’s folk in Ered Luin. Bilbo simply could name every major king or lord from Ered Luin to Gondor, just like most Tooks could. Thorin Oakenshield was a name that held weight, weight that apparently he wasn’t supposed to know considering no one else decided to mention ‘king’ in relation to the dwarf.

Bilbo had the niggling suspicion that Gandalf had carefully and cheerfully decided not to inform the dwarves invading his home that Bilbo was the Abhorsen. Surely if they had known he wouldn’t have been interrogated and dismissed. This was getting complicated and convoluted, something that was so typically Gandalf that the hobbit was resigning himself to the fate of a headache by the end of the night if not a fortnight or ten. For it was Gandalf and there was a dwarven king in his home, so unless somehow Saruman himself decided to swoop in and give Bilbo and even more important quest he was likely going to be going along with whatever mad scheme Gandalf had cooked up.

Why couldn’t he be a Took?

At least when Gandalf cooked up schemes then he’d be kind about it, he wouldn’t go out of his way to hurt Bilbo emotionally. Didn’t Gandalf already know that he was disliked enough as it was, being too Took to be a proper Baggins and too Baggins to be a proper Took. He didn’t need the wizard playing his games as well, rubbing salt into the wounds Bilbo wasn’t going to acknowledge even existed. He might be the youngest Abhorsen to ever hold the title, but he wasn’t going to fail and break because of his youth.

These thoughts lingered in his head as he listened with half an ear to the dwarves’ discussion around him. Ah yes, Erebor, Bilbo had no idea where that was but apparently it was ‘far to the east, over ranges and mountain, beyond woodlands and wastelands’. At least that was Gandalf’s unnecessarily eloquent way of saying ‘don’t put a pot of tea on before leaving or else you’ll burn the entire village to the ground’. One thing did catch his attention though.

“We have a wizard in our company! Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time.”

Bilbo felt his face go slack in surprise as he stared at the dark haired dwarf who had spoken. The sincerity and utter conviction that the other held that Gandalf had indeed done such a grand thing and had done so more than once overloaded Bilbo’s brain. He could only watch as the other dwarves began to press the wizard for information only to erupt into a chaotic shouting match. The noise covered Bilbo’s own choking wheezing half smothered laughter that sounded like a dying animal and by the time Thorin called for order Bilbo had managed to slide into respectability once more.

Really just in time to be thrown headfirst into the realization of what exactly Gandalf’s machinations were.

“Gandalf! Study! _**NOW**_!”

Stomping his foot Bilbo pointed down the hall. He wove power into his order, layering his intent and will, pushing it to the binding Gandalf wore hidden around his neck. The Abhorsen watched as the wizard straightened, the dwarves oblivious to the powers at play as Gandalf pushed himself away from his chair and swept down the hall. Bilbo quickly followed, letting the wizard get inside the study before entering himself. Shutting the door behind him, Bilbo locked it and traced the marks for silence, muffling, secrets, and privacy before linking them together with a master mark. When the spell settled Bilbo rounded on the wizard.

“You will explain yourself to me right now!”

Bilbo kept his back straight even as he was glared at by the wizard. Gandalf couldn’t hurt him, nor through action or inaction cause him grievous harm. That was the only thing he trusted in right now, the binding that held the istari in his form, keeping his magic in check. Raising Gandalf’s ire was also nothing compared to the things that Bilbo had already faced in Death. His innocence and youth had already begun to wear away, and soon so would his individuality. He would become the Abhorsen and his name would be forgotten save to family.

Well if Bilbo had had any family left he was close to anyway.

Now he stood an echo of who he would soon be. A person, being, strong enough to face the wrath of a wizard without quaking.

“They need the Abhorsen to be successful in this venture but they will never admit it nor stoop to requesting your aid. They do not want to think of what truly lies for them at the end of this quest, for who wants to imagine their home not only stolen from them by a dragon but also to be infested with the Dead. There was too much wanton destruction that day, one of the Great Stones of Eru was broken as well as countless lives lost. The humans that have remained nearby rebuilt their settlement on the Lake itself instead on its shores, not for fear of dragonfire but for fear of the Dead that won’t stay so.”

Feeling his anger drain from him Bilbo brought a hand to his face.

“Why me? Why now? Certainly there’s been more competent Abhorsens before me who could have dealt with this.”

“With the dead, oh most certainly. With the dragon itself, no. It is you, Bilbo Baggins, or no one at all.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to argue but stilled when he heard humming. Closing it with a click he turned his head to stare at the door. Their voices were like Astarael’s toll, a sound so profoundly grieved that Bilbo felt himself wavering on the border. It would be so easy to slip into death at this moment, the power of their longing, their fierce love and broken hearts, could have sent any halfwit necromancer on their way. Bilbo’s heart ached for them and he was startled to realize that icy tears had started flowing from his eyes. Sniffing Bilbo rubbed at his cheeks before turning to look at Gandalf, resignation mixing with the dwarves’ dirge.

“I will go.”


	4. Clayr, Clayr Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tooks are terrifying and Gandalf is and forever will be the grandmaster of trolling

There was something rather spectacularly aggravating being accosted by cousins in places where you don’t expect your cousins to be. For instance Bree. Bree was certainly a place Bilbo didn’t expect to meet any of his cousins. It wasn’t like he had intentionally set out to sneak out of the Shire without alerting the usual authorities to his departure. Just…he had signed a non-disclosure agreement specifically stating that he couldn’t tell anyone where he was going, if he had told his family he was leaving both sides would have pressed and wheedled him until he had caved and shouted his destination while tossing them out of his house. So he had written a few notes with the ever wonderfully descriptive: ‘ _Out on Abhorsen business with Gandalf, don’t sell my house or steal my spoons._

_Love,  
Bilbo Baggins 63rd Abhorsen of the Shire_’.

The notes had even been sent via the post office rather than the usual curriers just to ensure Bilbo’s escape. Which sounded far more clandestine than it actually was, being stuck on a pony that ambled along the road at a steady pace was not exactly furtive. It was like he was running away, it was simply he had something quite important to do. Something that required that he leave now, rather than several months from now when he was of a ‘proper’ age to go be the Abhorsen.

Like Death ever waited for anyone to be the proper age before taking them.

Still he was more irritated than confused when Sigismond and Flambard appeared out of thin air at the Prancing Pony, flanking him like golden bookends with matching mischievous smirks as they each lay an arm over his shoulder. Bilbo did his best not to shrink under their touch, even as his gaze firmly went to the stained and weathered wooden floor. It was easy, or easier to pretend when he was alone without other members of his family around to remind him of his inadquecy. The Tooks often avoided Hobbiton and its staunch adoration of propriety and the Bagginses were often busy and scattered throughout the Shire (and would never have crossed the Wall). It was now, when he was pressed between his cousins, that everyone could see just as they could every time Bilbo was placed near them just how queer Bilbo’s looks truly were.

Where Sigismond and Flamabard were brimming with life and health, sunkissed and golden like wheat, Bilbo was a pale and faded shadow of what a Took was supposed to look like. The Abhorsen’s skin looked like fine porcelain, soft and muted like moonlight, ethereal and almost dollike. His hair looked tarnished compared to his cousins, the bright golden color had been muted and sullied, as if all that was needed was for Bilbo to simply wash the grime from his hair. Not that it’d work though, because Bilbo had recently come from the bath and was perfectly clean. Anyone who cared to sniff him or pet his hair would know.

“Tsk tsk cousin. To think you thought you could sneak away without getting a proper goodbye? Shameful that what this is, you should know better by now that we See everything.”

Bilbo closed his eyes as he silently begged Mandos for patience while Flambard spoke. He could feel the weight of the dwarves’ stares, practically tasting the way Thorin’s anger began to rise. The Abhorsen could feel Sigismond snicker at the dwarves, and instinctively knew that his cousin had thrown a wink at Gandalf.

“Not to worry master dwarves, whatever reason you’ve got for absconding with our cousin still remains a secret. We simply Saw him here, at this day, at this time, woefully unprepared for the road ahead. As he is far far too much of a Baggins to tell you lot to shove it or even delay a day or two while he got himself properly prepared, as he was in the middle of moving residences, we decided to gather up his proper travelling things. Since being unprepared for the road ahead will kill him and therefore all of you by proxy, we also figured you wouldn’t mind. Now bring our little cousin back in one piece or there will be no place in Middle Earth you can hide from us.”

Sigismond’s smile was bright and merry as he spoke cheerfully. His eyes though were flinty, a dark greyish green that spoke more eloquently than words that he would enact a vengeance too terrible to name. Flambard’s eyes were kinder, but his smile fiercer with far too many teeth. It wasn’t often or easy for hobbits to look intimidating or threatening in any manner, as soft and small as they generally were. Unsurprisingly Tooks and Bagginses had managed to get it down to an art form, though in spectacularly different ways. There was something wild and unrestrained within the Tooks, a chaotic sort of energy that they could harness into a weapon. Bagginses were calm and regal, sophisticated and curt, with a sharp chilling edge that struck clean and true when they wanted to.

When the Tooks were certain their point had been made they turned to Bilbo, and gentled their expressions. In sync they leaned forward and pressed their foreheads to Bilbo’s head, a comforting gesture for their cousin.

“You needn’t have threatened them so.”

Bilbo muttered, his cheeks and ears flushed with embarrassment. Flambard laughed lowly, uncaring that they were being watched by thirteen dwarves and a wizard.

“ ‘course we did. You’re going on an Adventure without a single member of the family. If we’re going to trust you into the care of some strange raggedy dwarves then they gotta know you’re precious to someone and will be missed if lost or misplaced.”

A sigh escaped Bilbo as he slumped in his cousins’ embrace.

“So am I to consider this an unsanctioned adventure in which there will be Consequences when I return?”

A musing sort of noise came from Sigismond, as if the hobbit was turning a thought over in his head.

“There’s always consequences to everything. Can’t walk through life without leaving a footprint here or there. As for your concern…well Uncle Isengrim ‘ll have our heads for saying this, as we’re not actually supposed to be It but we are It anyway today, tonight, here, for you. Just this once, mind you, because it’s Special Circumstances and Gandalf’s involved-“

“What he means to say is that We condone and accept the path you now walk upon, for better or worse.” Flambard interrupted Sigismond with an amused huff and roll of his eyes.

A little bit of tension leaked out of Bilbo at his cousin’s words. There had been a small shred of doubt and fear that what he had been about to do, what Gandalf wanted him to do, was against the will of the Valar. The reassurance that the Clayr had Seen him, or who was currently acting as the Voice of the Clayr had Seen him, go on this journey and not been given visions of doom, despair, and Arda ending meant good things. It meant that Gandalf had been right, or at least somewhat right, in the fact that Bilbo was the one to help.

“Now all that heavy stuff is out of the way, here’s your pack, have fun, and for Lorien’s sake _don’t_ get eaten by trolls.” Flambard fussed as he detached himself from Bilbo to shove a pack into his arms.

“Nice to meet you master dwarves, do bring him back to us in one piece or you’ll be meeting your Maker in several mostly unidentifiable ones. Tata!” Sigismond grinned a smile that was both pleasant and darkly terrifying wiggling his fingers at the still seated dwarves before he ruffled Bilbo’s hair and turned to leave the inn.

“Wait! You’re leaving? Now? Where are you going?” Bilbo called after his cousins, pack almost forgotten in his arms. Watching them trot away he felt something akin to fear bubbling up into his throat.

“Grey Havens! Best hide there for a bit til Uncle Isengrim and Mistress Baggins calm down a bit. Don’t worry Bilbo you aren’t alone!”

Then as abruptly as they had come they were gone. Bilbo stood only several feet from the dwarves’ table, pint forgotten in his hand as he held the travel pack his cousins had brought. They had obviously gone to the Abhorsen’s smial, for the bag was old and well worn, but still quite sturdy. The bedroll was of finer make than the one he had had on hand, and he could feel in the weight of it that the Abhorsen’s mail and cloak were inside. His bells were still hidden in his other pack, as well as The Book of the Dead, and a few other necessities he had had on hand. He’d transfer everything into this pack, probably sell the other. The sword was missing though, which was worrisome until he remembered that…well Great Aunt Pansy hadn’t died of old age, but outside the Shire, outside the Wall, coming back from Rivendell. Orcs had been the cause, well part of the cause, since whoever had found her body had found her clutching Astarael with several mortal wounds and a small pack of orcs and wargs. Her bells had been untouched, Bilbo suddenly recalled, but her sword had been missing as well as a few bits and pieces of orc armor and weaponry.

“Care to explain what just transpired Burglar?”

Thorin’s voice broke through Bilbo’s thoughts, startling the abhorsen into action. Carefully putting his bag under the table Bilbo placed his mug of ale on the top of the table before clambering onto the only seat left, a small space placed between Ori and Bofur. He thought over his answer, glancing at Gandalf only once before scowling at the wizard as he usually did before returning his gaze to the tabletop.

“They’re my cousins from my mother’s side of the family. The Tooks are Clayr and usually before someone goes out on an adventure they get the family’s approval. It usually prevents things like unexpected death, dismemberment, or other unsavory and highly unpleasant things. If it’s terribly important we’re supposed to have a Clayr accompany us on our Journey.”

“Clayr? Those two are Clayr?” Balin breathed reverently.

The white haired dwarf looked awed by the thought. Bilbo wanted to shrink further into his seat as he felt the gazes intensify on him. He knew the question that was coming, was dreading it as he watched Kili’s mouth open.

“So are you a Clayr too? Is that why Gandalf picked you to be our burglar?”

There was a sense of excitement in Kili’s voice that made Bilbo hate himself just a little more. _No, you do not have a Clayr to accompany you. Instead you have the Abhorsen, the one hobbit none of you really wanted to come along_. Instead he colored in shame, his fingers clenching around the cool metal of the tankard.

“No. I’m a Baggins. Baggins can’t _See_. If you lot wanted a Clayr you should’ve gone to Tookborough, like I told Gandalf when he first approached me.”

“Wait…you mean it innit just those two who are Clayr? You’re saying that your mum’s entire clan is considered Clayr? I mean I know Sight runs in families, but an entire clan of Clayr? You must be joking.”

Bilbo turned right to look at Bofur. The hobbit’s eyes were stormy and his lips pressed into a thin line. He was saved by answering from Gandalf.

“The Tooks were chosen specifically by Irmo to be the main holders of the Sight. He needed a family that would be close to the Abhorsen’s, so that they could work together to maintain balance. You’ll find Clayr in other races, of course, because their guidance is needed all over. Simply the Tooks will always inherit the position to go with their Sight, instead of only having Sight.”

“Why have we not known of this before?”

Thorin’s voice was a low rumbling offended grumble. Bilbo’s ire was already simmering and easily boiled over at the unvoiced accusation directed at both Bilbo and Gandalf.

“Well did you ever ask?” Bilbo replied snappishly as the table grew quiet again.

“No, why should I ha-“

Bilbo held his hand up to silence the king.

“ _Because_ if you had asked about my people, inquired about us, or even attempted to make ties while you were all in Ered Luin you would have learned this. It isn’t like we keep it a secret from those we consider to be allies. Breelanders would be able to tell you, the elves of the Grey Havens and Rivendell would be able to tell you, and the Rangers would be able to tell you. Why? Because they’re our allies and we keep no secrets from them, because the Tooks were given a mission to help Middle Earth as a whole and not simply the Shire or the West. So don’t get huffy about ‘secrets’ when there aren’t any because you were too prideful to ask about us lowly hobbits. And before you can degrade me further by being disappointed I’m not a Clayr, I’m a Charter mage. So no, I can’t see if we’re going to be attacked tomorrow by a group of roving bandits while on the road but if they are I can set them on fire or blind them or any manner of things, because I am a competent mage. Now good _evening_.”

With that Bilbo got off his seat, grabbed his bag and stormed away to his room intent on packing his new bag with the things he had already brought with him. He didn’t linger to see the dwarves shocked faces or Gandalf’s weary one.

“What in Mahal’s name caused _that_?”

“Several things, Master Dwalin, but mainly I suspect the pain of a person who has never felt appreciated or liked for who he is. You see Bilbo looks quite unlike anyone else on either side of his family, of course he favors the Took side more, but he was never able to blend in with them since he was a child. He sticks out like a sore thumb on both sides of his family and I fear that he has forever been caught between them. He’s been made to feel quite useless despite his many talents because he did not inherit the Sight in a way that others will appreciate. Even by myself.”

“So he has the Sight just not a useful manner?” Thorin asked as his brows furrowed together. “And did you choose him simply to assuage your own guilt or did you actually pick him for the reason we asked you to pick a burglar?”

“Perhaps, though I cannot say for certain. I have never known a hobbit to look so Tookish without some form of Sight being bestowed upon them.” The wizard matched Thorin’s glare with one of his own. The shadows lengthened every so slightly and a chill descended upon the table. “If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar then a burglar he is! He has more to offer you than what any of you know, even himself! I did not pick him on a whim or out of a sense of guilt. You need him if you ever wish to succeed in reclaiming your homeland. I know the stakes of this quest better than you do and know that if I truly had a choice in this Master Baggins would be on a wholly different and a far safer adventure than this, none of you would be here. Yet this must be done and it must be done by who is here.”

“I am trusting the lives of my men, the future of my homeland, in the hands of an insolent hobbit. I have every right to question your decision in him until he has proven his worth and earned my trust, especially since you failed to mention that he was a mage too.”

Gandalf snorted inelegantly. “You wanted a burglar so a burglar I found, everything else is a delightful bonus.”

“I don’t like surprises Tharkun.”

“Then you must truly hate hobbits. You can learn about them and all their ways in a month, and centuries later they still manage to surprise you. They’re quite like a metaphor for life now that I think on it.” Gandalf mused. “I suggest you make peace with your dislike of surprises, Thorin Oakenshield. For on a journey like this one, being surprised will become such a commonplace occurrence that you will likely become a most unpleasant and crotchety travelling companion.”

“You cannot tell me what I should or should not do.” Thorin pointed out as his glare reached a level where most sensible people began to cower.

“No, I truly cannot. What I can offer is advice that will help keep you from being spontaneously and accidentally, I assure you, turned into a cat. A most unpleasant experience I’m told for anyone who isn’t a skinchanger.”

There was a minute of silence after Gandalf’s not so subtle threat. The king finally conceded defeat in the only way he could while maintaining his dignity in front of his company.

“I will take the matter under advisement.”


	5. A Librarian is not a librarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ori is a Librarian and that should explain everything, except it never does because everyone assumes he is a librarian.

Ori was a Librarian of the Library of Belegost. Well he was a Second Assistant Librarian and Scribe, but the Librarian title was more important than being a Scribe. Men liked to roll their eyes when they heard of how esteemed the elves and dwarves held their Librarians. That they could be considered some of the more essential personal in a city, that their position was undoubtedly necessary to the function of the grand cities that housed Libraries. For there was a difference between a library and a Library, just as there was a difference between and librarian and a Librarian.

For one point Librarians were trained in combat. Not hard combat mind you, but slingshots as well as bows and arrows were often the main weapon of the Librarians, as well as usually a dagger, sword, or war axe. Another point was that the Librarians were all Charter mages. Ori was also considered to be a journeyman in this regard too, which was why he was a second assistant. He was the youngest dwarf to ever hold the title, as Dori was wont to tell everyone.

He may have also done a few unauthorized things, like maybe explore levels of the Library he wasn’t supposed to go to and read a few books that he hadn’t been officially allowed to. Having Nori for a brother was enlightening when it came to puzzling out spells, unwinding them, and figuring out how to make them and how to disarm them. One couldn’t help but pick up some bits and pieces when their brother was one of the few Wallmakers left to their people and had been the one to first start teaching Ori of the Charter.

The elves may scoff and sneer about the dwarves origins, but they _had_ been accepted by Eru in the end, they had become a part of the Charter that bound everything together. Every dwarf bore a Charter mark, every dwarf knew the marks of resilience and strength. Few dwarves had a talent for simply casting spells, and never for weather working, but they did have an innate talent for laying spells within objects, for building complex and beautiful creations of magic and matter. The Dwarves were the last of the Bloodline of the Wallmakers, for the Ents had died out years ago.

Yet it remained the same that Ori had known long before Bilbo had announced in a fit of anger that he was a charter mage. Ori had known the moment that they had met that Bilbo was not just baptized in the Charter, as all Free folk tended to be, but that he understood it. There had been times Ori had seen Bilbo dipping into the Charter for strength and endurance while dealing with the dwarves in his home. He had felt it, in a brief touch of their hands, the depth of Bilbo’s power.

Librarians had to be observant afterall, being unawares often got you killed when dealing with the more dangerous collections in the Library.

It was that observational ability that told Ori several things about Bilbo Baggins. 1. The hobbit was a very powerful charter mage, perhaps not trained in depth but still someone to have on your side. 2. Bilbo Baggins had training of some kind in physical fighting for his ability to dodge wrestling dwarves and flailing limbs was too good to be a simple fluke. 3. Bilbo Baggins had been hurt by Gandalf very deeply in some manner, for the hobbit had too much resentment, resignation, and pain whenever he looked at the wizard’s back for too long. 4. Bilbo Baggins was well read for a hobbit. 5. Bilbo Baggins was terribly kind underneath his bluster.

The kindness surprised him when it showed up. Not that Bilbo had ever seemed cruel. Their burglar had seemed almost…akin to Thorin, bound by some unnamable unknowable force dragging him across a path that was both chosen and forced. He had suffered something in his past and it shuttered his eyes and slumped his shoulders easily. Yet then he smiled and snuck apples to the ponies, whispering kind words to them. He spoke to Bombur, complimenting his appearance and his food, often helping the dwarf with his chores. He had even gotten them better deals in Bree the day they resupplied when he used the name of his mother’s family, pretending to be a Clayr. There was a gentleness in his heart he couldn’t hide, not completely.

Even when he had been pestered by a few children, tugging at his surcoat and asking him if they could please be told their fortunes. He was a Took, wasn’t he? He could See, couldn’t he See them?

Bilbo hadn’t brushed them off, not even while Thorin was frowning at him in a silent demand they do not waste more time in the town. Instead he had turned his attention to the children.

“The Clayr do not See on demand.” He had spoken to them in a gentle tone, not dismissing but more akin to informing them of something they needed to know. “Sometimes the Clayr can See if they try particularly hard, but sometimes they can’t. The Sight is a fickle gift that shows snatches of possibilities, there are maybes and could bes and should not bes. If I Saw into your future it would not be something that I could guarantee could come to pass but…I can tell you something. A secret, if you like. One very few will know right now.” He had smiled a mischievous and knowing smile, one that was a strange counterpoint to the age in his eyes and the hint of pain that seemed to be an old wound.

The children had leaned closer, eyes wide. They held their breath in anticipation. Bilbo leaned in closer as well, the perfect image of a coconspirator. Then he whispered in a low voice, a voice that only Ori had heard standing so close to them. “There is a river, great and vast, that everyone must visit. It can be a scary place, fraught with danger, but going down it is inevitable. Yet there is something there at the end of this river, something we all see one day. There are stars, hundreds and hundreds of stars, closer than you’ll ever see here, and more beautiful than any jewel or gem. So remember this secret when you find yourself in the river, remember the stars that will be there at the end.”

A puzzled but awed look had crossed over the children’s faces. They looked happy despite not being told their future, because they had a secret. A secret given to them by a Took.

But the secret that had been given had weighed on Ori’s mind. He had read something similar once, but he couldn’t remember where. It gave him a sense of disquiet, because while Ori didn’t know exactly what Bilbo had been talking about he knew that a hobbit wasn’t supposed to be privy to that information.

It was that that had prompted Ori to seek out Master Baggins on the fourth night that they had left Bree. Bilbo indeed looked different now, wearing his thin silvery scale mail. The mail obviously was driving Nori and Bofur a little mad as they eyed it, trying to figure out exactly what it was made of. For it was not metal despite its coloring but it was as strong as such, when a helpful bandit decided to help demonstrate its strength when he had attacked Bilbo with a sword. There wasn’t a piece or scrap of metal in it, and Bilbo only took it off now to bathe. His regular shirt and jacket had been replaced by a dark olive green surcoat with bell sleeves that ended at his forearm with a golden trim of artistically knotted vines that seemed almost like stars. Bilbo had explained both items as family heirlooms, the mail from a great aunt who had recently passed and the surcoat from his mother. It would help him pass as a Took, he had explained, the green and gold two colors that were associated with the Clayr clan.

Actually Ori had cornered Bilbo while the hobbit was bathing. The Librarian had come to stand by the streambed, his gaze nervous but determined as he cleared his throat to gain the hobbit’s attention.

“I’ve been thinking about something you’ve said earlier, in Bree. You told those children a secret. A secret you shouldn’t know. You described Death to them, or at least part of Death I think. I’ve been trying to think of where I had heard the information before, and I remembered it was in a book I read about one of the Abhorsens and dealing with a necromancer. How did you come by the knowledge?”

Bilbo looked startled at the confrontation. His pale skin glowing faintly in the moonlight and his hair was darker than it normally was from the dampness. The shock melted away to a stubborn exasperated look as the hobbit seemed to gather himself. His chin went up and he practically bristled.

“I’m a _hobbit_ Ori. Hobbits learn about death early on because we’re the only race that the Abhorsen can be chosen from. An Abhorsen long ago decided that all hobbits were to receive an education of sorts as to what to expect when we do die, because he or she didn’t want to worry about what would happen to their homeland as well as never have a hobbit be surprised by _everything_ if they’re chosen. A great deal of the fear of death is not knowing what happens. When the mystery is solved it loses some of its potency. The knowledge helps to generally keep hobbit souls from lingering too long in Death just as it helps keep hobbits from turning to necromancy out of fear or grief.”

The lie was a small one, but one that the hobbits as a whole stuck to fiercely whenever dealing with Outsiders. Only the Bagginses could be chosen as the Abhorsen, but that to be knowledge given to all the world was foolish. It would bring every Free Magic Sorcerer and Necromancer down upon the Baggins clan within a blink, it was much harder to kill an entire race than it was to kill a family. So they kept their mouths shut or told the little lie to ensure that in the end the Bagginses would be safe.

Then Bilbo bristled even more and Ori didn’t want to say it, couldn’t say it without potentially having a spell thrown at him, but Bilbo didn’t quite look as intimidating as he thought he did when he was angry. Certainly he was on the pretty side of plain, but he had an air about him…one that reminded Ori of a puppy or kitten. One shouldn’t think that of a fully grown mature hobbit, but Ori saw him as such and if the young dwarf was being honest, Bilbo looked even more like a small animal when he was angry. He appeared to be mostly bluster and fluff, though the appearance was likely deceiving given his strong connection to the Charter.

“Now if you’re done questioning me I would like to finish bathing! It must be a cultural difference but _hobbits_ do not decide to interrogate one another while one party is _naked _and the other fully clothed.”__

__Ori hadn’t even thought of that. He hadn’t even reconigzed the situation he was going in. Certainly he had made note that Bilbo’s new surcoat and mail were gone because Bilbo was bathing, but he hadn’t realized Bilbo had been _bathing_. A flush began to creep up Ori’s neck, coloring his cheeks a bright red as he made a mortified noise that was akin to a dying cat. His mouth opened, then closed, opened again before shutting with a clack of his teeth as he stared frozen at the _naked_ hobbit. The surprisingly hairless and smooth hobbit that had a strange sort of softness in his body couple with an almost hidden strength. He was pale, so very pale and looked almost like the expensive dolls that Dori had always liked to stare at wistfully sometimes. Ori hadn’t noticed, of course he hadn’t noticed, but Bilbo was very….attractive in an exotic way._ _

__That realization had Ori cringing, retreating into his scarf and cardigan like a turtle. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t think! M-mahal I’m sorry! I am going. Yes, going. Thank you I…this isn’t proper. This is so improper. Dori is going to _murder_ me. I should have waited I…I’m leaving right now Master Baggins!” Ori stumbled through his words as his limbs suddenly became ungainly and weighed with Oliphants. He flailed and stuttered, losing his way three times in his haste and clouded mortified mind. Finally he made it back to the camp, stumbled to go sit on a log and curled in on himself._ _

__He tried not to think of his transgression or on Bilbo’s oddly pretty body. Throwing himself into the safe part of the conversation he mulled over the information Bilbo had given. Hobbits had a thorough education on Death. A strange practice for a race to possess, to learn about Death before their Time. He wondered what other information the Hobbits had, what Bilbo might be willing to share once the memory of this night faded from both of their minds. It would be educational, very educational to start talking to the hobbit regularly, to see what information he could add to the Library of either Belegost or Erebor. He was a Librarian and a Scribe, this was his duty, his job. Anything else would be a disservice to his rank and neglectful of his duties._ _

__Maybe tomorrow he could start. Tonight though he was going to stay in his quiet corner and hope he could scrub the image of smooth pale skin from his mind._ _


	6. Don't Get Eaten By Trolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo wishes his family would be clearer when giving important potentially life saving advice.

_Don’t get eaten by trolls_

A perfectly reasonable and sound portent into Bilbo’s future, a piece of advice he should have heeded. It was just like with many prophecies given by the Clayr in the Took clan it was given in an offhanded manner, in the same tone of voice that everyone gave the general advice that you only had to give half an ear to. He should have known better, Bilbo muttered angrily to himself inside his own head. He should have _listened_ to his blasted cousins, because didn’t he grow up with the infamous Belladonna Baggins nee Took? Didn’t he have a plethora of stories of his mother’s airy ‘watch out for rabbits’ and ‘try not to fall in the river again’?

Wasn’t the story of his own parent’s first meeting enough? That Belladonna had shook Bungo’s hand, said hello and offhandedly informed him that they were going to fall in love and get married. By Mandos even the family dinners when he went to Tookborough should have trained him to listen properly, prophecies of the everyday nature often being bandied about while passing the potatoes.

Tied up in a sack covered in troll snot Bilbo Baggins was seriously reconsidering his current life choices. Life choices he was going to have a long and lengthy discussion with Gandalf over, mainly asking was it wise to reclaim a kingdom when it was obvious that the heirs to the throne were blithering idiots? They obviously had been dropped on the head as children, repeatedly, likely less being dropped and more like having continuous blunt force trauma inflicted upon them. That or stupidity ran strong in the line of Durin. Bilbo was willing to consider that both options were valid, and perhaps there was potentially a way to get Balin on the throne? Balin seemed sensible enough, honorable and noble, too honorable at times because he was obviously honoring an oath given to Thorin at some earlier point before the stupidity had fully settled into the King’s mind. Balin was too clever to go on this sort of quest for fun or free ale.

Yes, Balin would be a good choice in king. First though Bilbo had to figure out a way to get them out of the sacks and out of the troll’s tender mercies.

“Excuse me! _Excuse_ me! You are making a terrible mistake!” Bilbo hopped forward. “A great and terrible mistake.”

“You can’t reason with them! They’re halfwits!” Dori cried out from where he was on the spit.

“Halfwits? What does that make us?” Bofur shot back.

Closing his eyes and asking Mandos for patience Bilbo hopped a little closer.

“You see there’s a secret to eating dwarf. You should all know that in the Shire we eat dwarves quite regularly but with all that hair and unpleasant hygiene it gives us such terrible indigestion. Why I wouldn’t be surprised if you lot suffered much the same.”

There was stunned and horrified silence from the dwarves while the trolls looked intrigued.

“You eat dwarves Abhurrglahobbit?”

“Of course. We are civilized in the Shire.” Bilbo put on his best Baggins’ voice, straightening his back as he tilted his head in just the right angle to look both superior and offended that he was thought of as anything less the epitome of proprietary. “And I will admit that I am particularly cross that you’ve taken all my dwarves. They were supposed to last me til I reached Moria. Now I will have to go back to Ered Luin to get more, do you know how bothersome that will be?”

“You were trying ta steal our ponies!”

“Because _you_ stole our ponies first!” Bilbo shot back, his voice dripping with irritation and disapproval. “So I wasn’t stealing because I was taking back what _I_ already owned.”

“It doesn’t matter either way we’re going to eat you with the others Abhurrglahobbit.”

Bilbo shot a venomous glare at the troll who had spoken to him, waving a spoon at his face.

“Well if you’re going to do that then I won’t tell you the secret to eating dwarves.”

Bilbo didn’t tremble of flail when he was picked up by a massive hand and squeezed. He simply stared at the troll accosting him with a haughty hugely unimpressed look. It was a mask, one of the best masks Bilbo had ever mastered throughout his short life. It showed none of the pain he felt, knowing that his ribs were now cracked, it showed none of his fear at the potential of dying.

“You’re going to tell us.” The troll rumbled shaking Bilbo like a doll.

“I’m not because if you eat me then the terrible stomach pains, diarrhea, and vomiting you’ll get from eating my dwarves will be revenge enough for me.”

The troll dropped him to the ground before lumbering over to his brothers, friends, it was hard to tell with trolls. Either way they spoke, on gesticulating angrily before huffing and stomping back over to where Bilbo lay.

“We’ll let you go if only because Bill really don’t like having the runs.”

Bilbo ignored the sudden cries of outrage, the promises of pain and violence, of being haunted by the dwarves. He simply nodded his agreement with the troll. It loosened him from the sack.

“Right the secret to eating dwarves is music. Flutes are passable but bells are best to listen to while preparing the dwarves, it soothes the dwarves which is essential since when they’re agitated they release a toxin within their bodies. When they’re relaxed they forget to do so.”

“I ain’t ever heard of that!” One of the trolls cried looking outraged.

The Abhorsen simply dusted himself off.

“And you’ve never had a meal of dwarf where you’ve not been terribly sick afterwards, have you?” A single eyebrow raised as he looked at the troll.

“Well no…”

“Then you see? Flutes or bells work. You know what since you lot generously let me go I will get my dwarf eating supplies. If you are willing to wait just a minute or two for me to fetch them that is?”

“Yea yea. Go on, we’ll even let you have a bite of supper Abhurrglahobbit.”

“Right, remember don’t kill any of them yet! They have to be properly relaxed or they release a toxin and then they’re all spoilt and not fit for consumption.” Bilbo warned before calmly walking out of the ring of light.

His heart hammered in his chest, his ribs ached, his entire body ached but he knew what he had to do. Running as quickly as he could he found their camp, found his pack and dug through it, tossing his belongings to the side before he reached the bells. Strapping the bandolier across his chest he ran back, taking half a second to run his hands over the bells. Swallowing thickly he carefully undid the clasp of two bells, calling up the images from the Book of the Dead into his mind. Ranna and Saraneth, Sleeper and Binder.

Stepping back into the light he looked at the trolls, his face falling into a grim sort of determination.

“I have returned.” Was all he said before he began swinging the bells in the precise patterns he remembered reading. Bilbo threw his will into the bells, forcing the trolls to freeze in place. The deep commanding voice of Saraneth rang out, binding the trolls to Bilbo’s will, as Ranna sung a sweet lullaby coaxing them to sleep. It took no time and too much time for the trolls to all fall like stones, firmly ensconced in Bilbo’s spell. They would not wake now or ever again, not when the sun would rise in just a few minutes and turn them into stone.

“Well done Bilbo!” Gandalf called from his spot upon a boulder. The grey wizard grinned at the hobbit for a moment before jumping down. “Now let us see about getting our companions free, hmmm?”

Bilbo nodded mutely carefully putting his bells back into his bandolier. He refused to look at the dwarves as he traced the charter marks for smothering and cold, breathing out their names and smothering the fire. He let Gandalf deal with the dwarves in the sacks as he cast the charter mark for cutting, the same marks he had been trying to cast earlier this night to free the ponies. The dwarves dropped inelegantly to the ground and Bilbo shuffled back, unsure now of his welcome.

It had been tenuous before, his acceptance into the group. Only four dwarves had been kind to him, two he now considered his friends. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing to Bofur and Bombur. Bombur who was searching for his clothes, who had been kind and let Bilbo help him with cooking duty and traded recipes with him. Bofur whose crass charm was annoyingly endearing, who had taken his journal one night while he had been writing a song and asked if he had written a tune for it yet. When Bilbo had denied having done so, because he was at a loss, Bofur had grinned and winked declaring he knew the perfect tune. And he had sung The Cat and the Fiddle at every opportunity now, to the point where Bilbo could hum along too and feel almost like he belonged and had a friend. Bofur who stood staring at Bilbo for a moment in shock, refusing to find his clothes.

“You’re a necromancer, laddie.” Balin’s voice beside him nearly had Bilbo screeching in fear. Instead he only jumped and swallowed down the sound in his throat. It wasn’t a question either, it was a statement of fact. One Bilbo could only nod in reply even though now he realized a sword was held to his neck.

“Balin! Check his mark.” Thorin ordered as he grasped his sword.

Gandalf came over and rolled his eyes, not so subtly smacking Thorin in the back of the head with his staff.

“His mark is whole as it has always been Thorin Oakenshield. I am a wizard and a servant of the Valar. I will have no truck nor tolerance of any corrupted necromancer.”

“You brought a necromancer along with us.” Thorin replied with a mixture of sulkiness and irritation.

“Just test my mark.” Bilbo spoke up, his fey eyes closed and his face a mask of resignation. This was part of why the Bagginses never left the Shire. They would be treated with suspicion or fear. This was also why the Abhorsen always supposedly clothed themselves in the easily recognizable colors and motifs. Bilbo wasn’t wearing those though, instead of the deep blue he was wearing green instead of the silver that was supposed to be used to embroider his clothes he used gold. He was declaring himself, to those who knew such things, as a Took, as a Clayr.

The hobbit felt Balin’s fingers touch his charter mark, and they both fell away into the endless flow of marks. It was the closest that any would come to truly knowing Eru, this moment of submersion as one soul tried to find the truth of another. Soon it was over.

“It is whole.”

“Of course it is! I am a Baggins!” Bilbo growled indignantly. 

“And that explains nothing to us.” Thorin shot back.

“It explains everything it should!”

“If you will allow me to interrupt gentlemen I would like to point out that these are cave trolls from the Ettenmoors. They could not travel in daylight. There must be a cave nearby.” Gandalf intervened before a verbal fight could truly get on its way. “Bilbo if you could…?”

Bilbo frowned at Gandalf before turning away from Thorin. Closing his eyes he reached out with the part of him that could sense Death. These woods were filled with it, old places where the veil between Life and Death had been torn long ago and were slowly closing, but Bilbo didn’t linger on those. He stretched out and tried to find the fresher tears, the newest doors. And finally he found one, large and fresh, one that would make this area dangerous for some time to come lest Bilbo placed a wind flute or other sort of preventative measure to keep the Dead from using that place as an entry point.

“That way, most likely.” He pointed as he spoke, his eyes slowly coming open. “That is where the greatest amount of death has occurred recently. I would be careful, for while I do not think that there are any Dead inside, the door is open somewhat should something wish to come through.”

“Then we will not linger.” Gandalf replied as he began to shepherd the dwarves towards the cave. Bilbo stayed behind, not wanting to force his presence on the dwarves or go into the cave. Instead he stared at his surcoat, wrinkling his nose and wishing he had time to clean it or do a laundry spell or two.

He was at his limit when it came to patience and dwarves and unexpected things. So obviously that is when everything decided to once again go pear shaped.


End file.
